Pinecones & Pennies
There were train tracks near our house when I was a kid—a few blocks over our suburban neighborhood abruptly transformed into an industrial wasteland with the railroad dissecting it. Nothing about those tracks was beautiful. Rust, filth, all manner of detritus seemed to spread from the tracks outward toward us. We lived just far enough that our street wasn’t infected by them, but the house behind us and its street weren’t so lucky. In 1980s Los Angeles, it seemed trains only moved through neglected industrial areas.
When we’d go camping in the summer, a train track followed us all the way up the Pacific Coast. Wherever we were, there it was. This track was beautiful, even its rust. Gone were the drab concrete structures, gone was the filth. These tracks were surrounded by the ocean and mountains, grass and trees.
My father showed me how a train could smash a penny, transforming it into something uncommon and glorious. I had a small collection of smashed pennies, each unlike the other. They were way cooler to my eye than the average pennies I’d come across. Some years later, I started holding onto the occasional un-smashed penny. But only if it said “one cent” on the reverse.
At a friend’s house, I once saw a 5-gallon water bottle filled with pennies—one of those thick plastic jugs dads struggled to flip onto their stands without spilling a drop. I tried to lift it, couldn’t, and briefly examined its contents. No smashed pennies. What was more interesting to me was that at our house, the man who dropped off the source of my father’s fits of frustration, also picked up the empties. I wasn’t fascinated by the pennies. I was captivated by what I didn’t recognize—the part that wasn’t like my own experience.
Back in a desolate alcove of the industrial neighborhood near our house, I found a secluded group of pine trees. They stood in stark contrast to their surroundings and held off the filth emanating from the rail line with some invisible buffering presence. I had seen some marvelously big pine cones in the pacific northwest, but not in Los Angeles proper. These trees, despite the encroaching industry and concrete, produced some of the most spectacular pine cones I’d ever seen. I’d never before been compelled to carry a pine cone home from any of our camping trips, but every time I visited that small outcrop of life, I brought home a treasure.
Everywhere I went, everything I saw, my interests led me to that part which was unlike the rest. Whether out of immediate attraction or curiosity, I appreciated those things that stood apart, that refused to blend in or conform.
There was just one place where the differences I observed weren’t welcomed—the mirror. The things about me that stood out were not welcomed or admired. My clothes, bought at The Big & Tall Man’s Shop, were odious. Even when they were the same. My friends wore Dickies, and though I too wore Dickies, they didn’t hang correctly from my mid section, they didn’t fall correctly at my feet.
My stomach protruded, where theirs attenuated at their hips. This difference disgusted me.
My breasts hung from my chest in gargantuan folds of flesh, this mortified me.
My friends all wore tapered, flooded pants. I was drawn to the punk rock subculture— it stood apart. I tried to tailor a pair of my own, hoping to match them. But no matter how I cut, pinned, or rolled, they never looked right. Less capri, more culotte. Less rebellion, more mistake.
I wonder if my fascination with oddities was in some way, a subconscious attempt at self-care? Finding things that stood out—like me—allowed me to transfer empathy to where I otherwise couldn’t.
I want to be the best teammate I possibly can to myself. I am interested in harmony over discord. I believe in accepting what I cannot change. Easier said than done. But what I won’t do anymore is be so hard on myself.
When the darkness surges and my self-talk turns vile, I remind myself of those majestic pine trees in the industrial wasteland of my youth, sprouting with beauty where none should exist. Just like the pine cones I collected or the smashed pennies along the tracks—treasures found in unexpected places—my own uniqueness contains unexpected value.
Incredible writing Ethan, have you narrated at all?